I am not a musician. What I do is just a hobby, something done for recreation. I can hardly even justify the time I use; it would be better if I could play an instrument that didn't require so much physical skill so I did not have to waste time on it every day...
LIE
Throughout December, I stayed away from the trumpet. I was actually doing okay. I thought I would just pick-it-up again later, when I really deserved to spare the time. It was the first of three months on this visa and I could not have anticipated the place I would find myself by month three. I have resumed playing and brought myself close to the levels I maintained before I left for my mission, give or take a little.
When I left for college, I dropped my practice habits. Music was not central to my career path anymore, even though I wanted it to be. I was not good enough; I could not be the superlative trumpet player when I could not even make the school of music so I did not want to be a trumpet player anymore at all. I almost chuckle to know how I started playing again: an alcove under a bridge beckoned me! It should come as no surprise that I play in a limestone cave these days-- and love it.
...though I miss those Michigan rivers, both the Red Cedar and the Grand. I wish that the neighbor had not complained about me. Part of me wants the roof-top, again...
The judge says I missed my chance. Does that not just figure? The judge in me says I missed my chance to be relevant as a musician and so I should go be relevant at something else--and I inevitably fail at the other thing because my soul is too drained.
The victim says I suck. The victim in me knows all the ways I suck at any particular moment. I think I mostly shed the victim right after some girl from Muskegon stomped on my heart. "I don't give a ____ what I sound like. I FEEL like ____ and this is all that seems to work..."
Truth: First of all, I don't suck. Let's just get that out of the way. Give me long enough, I will play by ear. Hand me piano music, I can transpose it on sight. When no one is looking, I improvise a little. My tone and expression improve with age, even if my tongue is slower. I never was one of those machine-gun tongued, high-screeching players. I used to want to be one. I can play "The Nearness of You" soft and a little fuzzy~ that suits my purposes much better.
But all of that is beside the point because music is a part of my total being. I was given this gift to help me process emotions. I do not need to justify taking time to play any more than I would to write or exercise.
Not much more needs to be said: I AM a musician. Even the other musicians in the Zoughbi compound say so. ...we jam, baby...
Showing posts with label trumpet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label trumpet. Show all posts
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Power-Source
This could be an entry about lying, the moral implications of bearing a false-witness to stay present with Palestine, how adeptly or poorly I can lie in the face of another Israeli Airport Officer or the nuances of the latest lie: "my parents booked the round-trip a month ago and forgot to change it--well, it's their money..."
[UPDATE] For the record, the Israelis sent the power-cable. I must admit that I was more eager to see them keep their word than to 'burn' them for being jerks.
This could be an entry about the uncanny intimacy of being searched by the thin young man wearing disposable gloves and the way his hands moves up and down my body like no one's have in months. While he swabbed the inside of my pants for bomb residues, I was forced to hide my amusement. A voice in my head said "this isn't a game," but another said "yes it is-- it HAS to be a game or you cannot thrive under this pressure..."
This could also be an entry about the microscopic social interactions I had with this team of sleuths. As they took apart my suitcase, a case of characters filled my world. An older lady officer grew impatient with me when she discovered that I had a pair of tiny scissors that I had, truthfully, forgotten about; I smiled and laughed at her like the entitled wanker I was pretending to be. ( "Oh they're so small, I'd forgotten about them." ). My trumpet drew interest, having so many cavities to search. Somehow, a USB drive had fallen into the bell and became lodged there when I inserted the conical stand. We took turns beat on the bell-pipe until a pair of them took it into a back room and returned with the cap of the USB drive. This entry is not about that or how my host easily retrieved it with some IKEA tongs here in Geneva (she's Canadian). Inevitably, there was a cute airport officer. She suggested that I try blowing the device out. Happy to perform, I played her "Under-Bridge Blues". "It is enough--" said the other lady. Too late: her subordinate smiled at me.
I almost made this about the lotion. The Israeli officers opened every pocket and rubbed swab-tipped wands along the insides of my suitcase and items inside, including my computer mouse. If they were looking for gunpowder there, all they found were traces of homus, mishmish, nutella, and lotion. The bottle of lotion I had so absent-mindedly tossed into the bag for the sake of my ashy hands had an Arabic label. I admitted I had bought it "in Bethlehem, that day." Of course, they could not take the chance that Hamas had teleported into my bathroom, slipped something inside my lotion bottle and then walked out my front door while I was eating hubz wa mishmish. I offered to throw the lotion away but instead the cute officer put it in its own, special box bound for Geneva. I day-dreamed some snide 'lubrication' jokes that are not appropriate for the general audience. I thanked her warmly for her consideration.
This entry is about my power-source: the cable and surge-protector that feed the battery on my Asus laptop. Forget, for a moment, Ben Gurion Air Port in Tel Aviv. Pretend, instead, to be a customs officer in Switzerland. Come out of the back in your wheel-chair to greet a young man in a black scarf and hat who has lost a 'computer part'. Take from him the Turkish Airlines receipt and ask him why he is here. Learn that in Tel Aviv they confiscated the power-source and said they would send it on a later flight. Listen to him explain how these security guards had told him they must have a machine check the device for anything someone might have put in there while he was not looking. This poor guy: let him use the telephone so he can get the address of the people he is staying with in Switzerland. Shoot him a glance when he lingers too long on the phone. Say, "this is what they do in Tel Aviv: we have been having problems with them." Smile and wish him well because you already know what David Wildman, my regional supervisor, told me the next day.
"Don't count on getting that power-cord back." He said they often say that and just throw it away. Its a deterrent tactic. Yet, I took it in stride for compassion's sake. First, compassion for my Palestinian brothers and sisters because I know this is what I must endure to stay present with them. I am not entitled to better treatment and this is one more story that brings us closer together, one more reason to tell their story wherever I go in life. It is also compassion for Israeli airport officers who are just executing policy. They are a middle-aged woman who wants to retire, a young man who would much rather pat-down his girlfriend, a young woman who would rather be listening to music then going through my underwear, and others like them. Israel's fears are plausible, if life is a Tom Clancy or Ian Fleming novel. It is even more unlikely that anyone put explosives in my charge-cable, more than in my lotion, but I could imagine that. Israel's policies are evil, even impish, but I am glad that I have transcended the good-guys versus bad-guys paradigm that perpetuates the rationalization violence. Israel needs a tough-love compassion; they are less evil than they are insane.
They also failed in their endeavour, Monday. I was nervous as they started removing clothes from my bag but they quit too soon. On top of the towel but below everything else, in the middle, was a brown hoody with a book inside: "The Invention of History: A Century of Interplay between Theology and Politics in Palestine." This book is not about how Palestine is good and Israel is evil. No. It is a book about the rhetoric and mistaken theology that formed the historical foundations of the conflict, going back to the British Mandate. It is better than inflammatory: it is illuminating. I hope to start and finish it this week so I will not have to smuggle it back again. If I succeed, it could be a power source for my itineration speeches. At the same time, I cannot help but musing that, if it were a chunk of C4 set to detonate when one of those security swabs made contact then, well, about five Israelis would have bit the dust no matter how careful they were. No tactics or technology can replace having cordial relationships: wi'am > warfare.
Yet, with the book was a kofiah (a traditional scarf) that I brought to trade with my colleague for some leggings from Germany. She was so pleased to have it, as much as I am pleased to be warmed from head-to-foot. There is so much to tell from just two days in Geneva but one thing is certain: I needed a hug. No, I need more than just one-- and even more than just hugs. I needed someone to listen to me for a while and commiserate about Israeli security with me... and even to buy me a drink.
Aside from God, a hug and an understanding ear are the greatest power-source I could come in contact with right now. I could not do this dance again in a week's time on anything less than that.
[UPDATE] For the record, the Israelis sent the power-cable. I must admit that I was more eager to see them keep their word than to 'burn' them for being jerks.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Sitting in Deficit
Between being sick and traveling, there has been little time for trumpeting this past month. I have an open invitation to jam at Dar Sansour (the Wi’am office) so I absconded upstairs and sunk my lips indulgently into a few familiar strains. My embouchure not entirely lost, I was just beginning to feel a little less sick when the scent of brewing zatta reached my nostrils. Zatta is known as thyme in English but I think that I will always call it zatta: the herb sees more action in this culture.
I went down-stairs and decided to sit while the tea finished brewing. As I did so, Zoughbi began to tell everyone in the room what a great guy I was and how important it was to be hospitable to me. I must have blushed terribly. I reassured everyone that they had been very hospitable to me and that it was really my pleasure to be there. Zoughbi went even further, saying that I was welcome to play outside, if I wanted, and no one would bother me.
As I sat down to drink my zatta, Zoughbi chimed-in again: “We are going to pay condolences; would you like to come with us?”
The answer was yes. I put my kafiah back on and joined Imad and Usama R. in Zoughbi’s car. We picked-up a school-teacher from Beit Sahour on our way to a nearby church. As we arrived, the abuna from the Greek Catholic congregation came walking up the street. We all shook hands and filed inside.
There, about two dozen older men stood as we entered. Zoughbi muttered the correct Arabic phrase and I tried my best to say it to each of them but I could tell I was not quite on-target. I took a seat next to Saliba and waited respectfully while they all conversed in Arabic. Only a few words popped in my ear: Eeran, ‘Ameerca, Isryal, Filisteen. Younger men were circulating the room with pots of coffee. I had to smile at the way older men accepted the tiny cup of coffee and then tried to offer it to the abuna, who wanted none of it. Personally, I had to use the restroom and Arabic coffee was going to exacerbate that like nothing else.
Another line of men entered, so that we all stood and shook hands with each other like opposing teams after a basketball game as our line left the church. I had made it without offending anyone and that was good enough for me, so I thought. We started the car and headed to the next church. “There are two funerals today.”
This time, I made sure to find the bathroom. While I was managing my fluid problem, I took a minute to think about what I was doing there. I knew nothing about the deceased. If I were capable of asking, I would not anyway. I had already been to one of these, I mused, so that I probably had all I needed to blather about paying condolences in my blog. From my normal, American perspective I was wasting time that I might have been using to... to... to...
I left the restroom with an intentionally different perspective: I was there. It reminded me of an important realization that flowered in the past month or so. In coming to terms with my relationship to my father, I also came to terms with the fact that sometimes even my attempts to be altruistic have oriented to my need to feel helpful rather than the needs of another. Praises on High, I managed to become more aware of that phenomenon and decided that there was value in ‘sitting in deficit’ with people while they are in the midst of struggle. Imagine how different the story of Job might be if his friends had continued sitting in silence with him rather than beginning their respective analyses.
We left the second round of condolences and proceeded to the basement, where (naam) a third funeral event was in progress. As I passed through the line, I tried to meet each eye and shake each hand with sincerity. It is hard to explain, perhaps. Facial expressions transcend some language barriers. I cannot take full credit: God blessed me with an expressive face. I let each of the older gentlemen see my emotions, how I felt to know that they had lost their friend. I can say honestly that something beautiful was there that was not at the first church, when I was worried about knowing what to do instead of wearing my compassion openly, even if there was nothing to do.
Back at the office, Zoughbi began again: “Really, you can play outside. My colleagues would like to enjoy your music without, uhh, so much repercussions inside here.”
I managed not to be very offended. At least I understood why Zoughbi had suddenly decided to talk about what a great guy John Daniel is – because he is a master at conflict resolution. Let me rephrase that: a master at Arab conflict resolution. In America, I could complain that he was being too indirect or feel betrayed by my co-workers because they did not feel comfortable confronting me. Yet, this is Palestine: everyone saves face. I choose to go outside; my co-workers are complicit in my playing somewhere on the grounds. Khalid remains outside of the equation. I know trumpets are loud but that is what I play. Halas.
...and the children win. The children always win. I went outside to a play-ground with half a dozen children and left a play-ground with two-dozen children. They came in twos and threes to the funny, loud noises. They had the most beautiful brown eyes and gaping smiles... I should tell you all about them sometime soon...
Sitting in Deficit
Between being sick and traveling, there has been little time for trumpeting this past month. I have an open invitation to jam at Dar Sansour (the Wi’am office) so I absconded upstairs and sunk my lips indulgently into a few familiar strains. My embouchure not entirely lost, I was just beginning to feel a little less sick when the scent of brewing zatta reached my nostrils. Zatta is known as thyme in English but I think that I will always call it zatta: the herb sees more action in this culture.
I went down-stairs and decided to sit while the tea finished brewing. As I did so, Zoughbi began to tell everyone in the room what a great guy I was and how important it was to be hospitable to me. I must have blushed terribly. I reassured everyone that they had been very hospitable to me and that it was really my pleasure to be there. Zoughbi went even further, saying that I was welcome to play outside, if I wanted, and no one would bother me.
As I sat down to drink my zatta, Zoughbi chimed-in again: “We are going to pay condolences; would you like to come with us?”
The answer was yes. I put my kafiah back on and joined Imad and Usama R. in Zoughbi’s car. We picked-up a school-teacher from Beit Sahour on our way to a nearby church. As we arrived, the abuna from the Greek Catholic congregation came walking up the street. We all shook hands and filed inside.
There, about two dozen older men stood as we entered. Zoughbi muttered the correct Arabic phrase and I tried my best to say it to each of them but I could tell I was not quite on-target. I took a seat next to Saliba and waited respectfully while they all conversed in Arabic. Only a few words popped in my ear: Eeran, ‘Ameerca, Isryal, Filisteen. Younger men were circulating the room with pots of coffee. I had to smile at the way older men accepted the tiny cup of coffee and then tried to offer it to the abuna, who wanted none of it. Personally, I had to use the restroom and Arabic coffee was going to exacerbate that like nothing else.
Another line of men entered, so that we all stood and shook hands with each other like opposing teams after a basketball game as our line left the church. I had made it without offending anyone and that was good enough for me, so I thought. We started the car and headed to the next church. “There are two funerals today.”
This time, I made sure to find the bathroom. While I was managing my fluid problem, I took a minute to think about what I was doing there. I knew nothing about the deceased. If I were capable of asking, I would not anyway. I had already been to one of these, I mused, so that I probably had all I needed to blather about paying condolences in my blog. From my normal, American perspective I was wasting time that I might have been using to... to... to...
I left the restroom with an intentionally different perspective: I was there. It reminded me of an important realization that flowered in the past month or so. In coming to terms with my relationship to my father, I also came to terms with the fact that sometimes even my attempts to be altruistic have oriented to my need to feel helpful rather than the needs of another. Praises on High, I managed to become more aware of that phenomenon and decided that there was value in ‘sitting in deficit’ with people while they are in the midst of struggle. Imagine how different the story of Job might be if his friends had continued sitting in silence with him rather than beginning their respective analyses.
We left the second round of condolences and proceeded to the basement, where (naam) a third funeral event was in progress. As I passed through the line, I tried to meet each eye and shake each hand with sincerity. It is hard to explain, perhaps. Facial expressions transcend some language barriers. I cannot take full credit: God blessed me with an expressive face. I let each of the older gentlemen see my emotions, how I felt to know that they had lost their friend. I can say honestly that something beautiful was there that was not at the first church, when I was worried about knowing what to do instead of wearing my compassion openly, even if there was nothing to do.
Back at the office, Zoughbi began again: “Really, you can play outside. My colleagues would like to enjoy your music without, uhh, so much repercussions inside here.”
I managed not to be very offended. At least I understood why Zoughbi had suddenly decided to talk about what a great guy John Daniel is – because he is a master at conflict resolution. Let me rephrase that: a master at Arab conflict resolution. In America, I could complain that he was being too indirect or feel betrayed by my co-workers because they did not feel comfortable confronting me. Yet, this is Palestine: everyone saves face. I choose to go outside; my co-workers are complicit in my playing somewhere on the grounds. Khalid remains outside of the equation. Trumpets are loud but that is what I play. Halas.
...and the children win. The children always win. I went outside to a play-ground with half a dozen children and left a play-ground with two-dozen children. They came in twos and threes to the funny, loud noises. They had the most beautiful brown eyes and gaping smiles... I should tell you all about them sometime soon...
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Send Revival
I thought I might start this entry with an apt piece of scripture. Instead, I am going to testify in my own voice. Not only that, I am not going to account for my absence from blogging. I may not even be able to highlight every relationship: all the connections God had been making suddenly lit-up like Christmas lights. Let the dance begin...
It may have started with some prophetic words from my therapist last Friday. I told Dr. Lennox Forrest that I wanted to get out of my own head—that I needed other people to pray for and care about. Lennox smiled and gave a gentle nod. "Messiah," he said "will no doubt send people into your life to care about if you ask." Someday, I should regale you readers of my mental/spiritual health journey—of Pastor Joyce, Dr. Forrest and a guy named Jerry who I've seen just once (oh, and Charlie Farnum—which is worth a grin for those who know him). It suffices to say, Lennox is not like many therapists... and it almost scared me away a few months ago...
Of course, I knew there were going to be SOME new people in my life: I joined Grand Rapids Christian Connect on Facebook. I met James, Mike, Sarah, Ruth, Leah and many others this past Saturday during an extensive evening. We ate at the twisted chicken and then went and hung-out. I almost did not go—thinking my time might be better spent working on my résumé (which remains unfinished and far from reaching a distant coast). Socializing was not a bad choice, for me. However, that was not what Lennox meant.
He probably meant some strange person who offered to have my children if I made her a taco... or something like that... I might have to gloss over that business for now since I have important testimony to get to... (Frank: One would hope you return to that story! Sheesh!)
It was definitely under-way by Sunday morning, but it did not exactly feel that way at first. We (Plainfield United Methodist, just to refresh your memories) had our outdoor worship at Huff park. A few months ago, I eyed that date with eager anticipation, imagining the sound of trumpet echoing through nearby swamps. Instead, I had a bad-embouchure week and failed to practice for the service. I showed-up and decided to exercise a different gift: helps. I carried equipment, caught the Pastor's notes when the wind blew them off the stand and... led the singing. Later, Jen mentioned that she might like us to sing harmony some time and, for the first time, I realized that my singing was not just a substitute for playing. Yet, like I said to Joyce before the service "I suppose this is a chance for God to show me I'm made of more than music..." Make no mistakes, though: I am built to Worship. That's no boast... it just is...
After our picnic, I called-out the Bingo numbers. Everyone playing bingo had a wonderful time and I was able to put-away my idol: the clock. I let the time pass and enjoyed the weather. Long after we had left the park, I realized that I had forgotten something important: my bag with the Bible and harmonica in it. 1) I seem to have misplaced my other Bible, as well—no Good book 2) the harmonica was my grandfather's. He passed away this April.
Tuesday, I finally hit the end of my rope. Tired from late-night discussions, numbed by the ambiguities of my job, I made my daily pilgrimage to river-side park and started to play. Even after a thorough-cleaning, my trumpeting still lacked the clarity I desired. The fuzziness was all in me. I tried to push through it to the other side~ and in small ways I felt myself succeeding. In the end, I knew what I thirsted for: BIBLE. Not in the sense that I should read my Bible (because by that time I knew it was in the church office, ready for me) but in the sense that I truly desired to connect with God via scripture. I also knew I was being an ass: I felt a pull toward the Christian bookstore to buy a new Bible but I was letting the money and the time it takes to make a trip prevent me from going. I also hadn't had a devo in a few days.
This is the part where it starts to become obvious. Now, I do not mean to sum up my entire belief system in this entry—or even imply that it is a static set of beliefs. However, I should mention that I think God is present in all things and at all times – I call it the metanatural and I believe it moves at faster than the speed of light. To me, the supernatural is when the metanatural moves in ways that defy normal and reveal truth in the natural universe. I don't believe that supernatural and natural differ in their origins at all—only in their purpose: the steady and regular versus the sanctified and ceremonial. Something unexpectedly Holy happened after I brought home my new New Living Translation. First of all... it's a cute little blue Bible! I love it! But seriously... I opened up my devotion and the suggested scripture was Corinthians 13 (Paul's take on love). That got my attention: "By God's will (I believe, putting skepticism away), the first verse I read in my new Bible is about Love." It reminded me of my first week as a Kinawind counselor, which is another long story.
Yet, God's sense of humor does not stop there. I felt compelled to do two devos. The scripture for the second one was Proverbs 16. Ringing any bells? Check out my facebook profile—it's the first quotation on my wall (and will remain so forever, now...). "Wow... double-play..." It was then that I started to feel a profound peace. I had been so quick to pick-up the Bible that I did not even bother to look at its theme. God had: a 'living water' Bible. I was thirsty, remember? God was faithful. Apparently, God idiot-proofed my trip to the bookstore... more on my cool new Bible at another time.
...meanwhile, the plot thickens with taco-girl... what is going on?!?! *clears throat*
However, August 18th 2010 seems to be have been a consecrated day from inception. Again, I want to stress who I have been. I have a gift of wisdom and knowledge, the sharp-edge of which is analysis and even skepticism. To be impressed with these phenomena, I have to be caught with my guard down—I am not proud of this. This morning, I was completely taken from the moment I awakened. You see, almost every morning I have awakened in this apartment since that first drab November day has been a chore. I will raise you another sad fact: the preceding two mornings, I do not even recall shutting off my alarm and returning to bed. I know that I set the alarm but my sub-conscious learned to diffuse it without bringing me fully to consciousness. When I reached full consciousness today...
...I was dancing to "Go Go Go" by the Orange County Supertones, reminiscent of my days as a fifteen year-old. I mean, I was up and going and making my bed for the first time in a month just jamming to the music. I wondered how I could shut that music off every single morning. I knew right then that this day was going to be miraculous. You see, I also have the gift of miracles... it's really hard to use with the gift of Wisdom because I'm skeptical. When I had begun to eat, I remembered that tonight was going to be the first Grand Rapids Christian Connect Worship Night. "Okay, God... you are definitely cross-referencing: I am made to worship. Let's go..."
Work was a little less blah. I was able to be thankful for my perks, rather than feeling guilty about them. Who would not be thankful for the gift of Christian McBride, Branford Marsalis and others over Pandora radio? I did some laminating and was content to be working with my hands more than with my mind. Even better, I got to joke-around with officer Bob:
Bob:"Who was that blonde from yesterday?"
Me: *hesistates and thinks of taco girl, then remembers* "Oh! She's going to be the new intern. We interviewed her yesterday and she did well."
"Alright! Yeah...woo!"
"Woo! You crack me up, Bob..."
Where was I?
...3 mile road was closed for repairs. I had to double-back on highway 96. My idol came-out to haunt me as I lamented the wasted time and motion. Then, God came to say hello—sitting on a sign-post for Leonard street.
"Hi, God... good to see you. I guess this means I am exactly where I am supposed to be."
For those of you who do not know, God likes to visit me in the form of hawks (if I had a 'Spirit Animal', it would be a bird of prey). I know, in my mind, that red-tail hawks frequent highways as a source of carrion. Yet, they time themselves so well that I cannot help but believe that they are driven there by that metanatural Hand. I attached a cheesy lesson to it: "I guess this was a God-ordained detour—if only this entire Grand Rapids trip could be so blessed. If only my NEXT adventure were so blessed. Where am I going?" –but I wrestled free from that reverie.
Sunshine church has a big sanctuary, set into the ground like a theater. You enter at the top and descend toward a stage. The band was already setting-up and I did not dare talk to them. Instead, I found a familiar face and said hello before entering into some light prayer. After ten minutes, I caught myself glancing at my watch, noticing it was past time. About that time, I made eye-contact with a man. I thought something might have passed between but, as I am learning, discernment is not my gift. I saw that his name was Jeremy, so when he introduced himself I wondered if he was the same Jeremy that conducted the worship band and if James had said something about my desire to play. No. He was another Jeremy—and confessed plainly that he had been blessed with the gift of prophesy and had seen this kind of worship coming in a dream. The statement struck me as odd, but my own miraculous morning caused me to reign in my skepticism. For the first time in my in-real-time life, I accepted that someone else might have a perceptive ability that I simply would never have. Academically, I never denied it. Yet in the moment, I had to accept and appreciate that what this guy told me was not a delusion. FAITH.
Unsurprisingly, I accepted the invitation to come forward and worship close to the stage. Without my trumpet, I decided to let my voice do what my trumpet might. Good news and bad news: The style of worship was perfect for improvising and experimenting in exactly the style that I am most gifted in—but my voice is untrained and so I had to get-over being on-key. Yet, I was impressed with how I was able to get over that (probably with Help). I figured "I need to express freely with my voice while I have the chance—" –and it felt right. I asked God over and over again "Let me be part of this worship!" while thinking all the while "I am so selfish... I love to entertain... am I doing this for the wrong reasons?"
But my big challenge was to come while Mike and James were speaking, not while we were singing. I sang my heart-out and was SURE that I wanted to continue coming AND be part of worship. So certain. Then, Mike got up to speak and opened his mouth...
I am not going to take apart the sermon. To summarize, I found it redundant and awkward in places... while simultaneously I saw the truth in it. In other words, I sat and stewed in cognitive dissonance for the duration of his sermon while I listened to him tell us how we could call ourselves righteous. Mike is kind of... well... a bragger; I found some things he said to be prideful—which reminded me of something I heard CS Lewis said about those with terrible pride finding pride so easily in others. Still, God uses all kinds. Obviously, the entire sermon set ushered in a period of spiritual warfare for me—especially the part where he admonished us to listen to the people who God has sent and not be critical. Criticism is practically my gift—there has to be accountability. Yet, simultaneously, he was telling me things I NEEDED to hear—about love, faith, forgiveness. My inner-opposition baffled me, though I should not be so surprised that I felt it. The same thing happened when James got up to speak: my idol started pestering me. I wanted to leave and come back to my safe bubble (talk to taco girl, whatever...). When they asked for money, I was fully in the enemies grip. I waved-off the offering bucket, slouched in my chair, waiting for the worship team to resume. James spoke about purpose and gifts and... things that I knew were relevant. At the same time, my own pride was raging. I was trying to think of reasons why I should not sit there and listen to a couple of guys who had never even been fully through seminary speak. I knew I was getting what I needed. I had to shove my watch in my pocket just to stand it. At the end, the guys apologized and reassured us that they had not meant for it to go so long. My ambivalence reached its height as they called forward their prayer-team. 'Oh, a prayer-team...' I thought 'well, isn't that special—'.
We were actually dismissed at this point. I could have walked-out then. I could have not come at all, really, and spent time writing stuff to impress... people. The World around me. Then, a seed that Charlie helped plant came to bud. I have been reading a book about spiritual gifts and gift-areas. When I took the assessment at the beginning of the book, it indicated that I was strong in knowledge (very strong), somewhat weak in Spirit power (disappointing, because that's the cool part), and pretty dismal in commitment. I blamed my lack of commitment on the paucity of suitable opportunities to be committed to. "I could just keep playing for Plainfield UMC and not be here for so long on Wednesdays..." I said to myself, ignoring the power I had felt in worship.
Then, I made a conscious decision to go against my nature. I decided that I was going to be prayed over, even though I had been prayed-over in church services before—usually with pleasant but somewhat ambiguous results. Yet, I decided that my musical/skeptical ASS was going to stick with these Wednesday services for at least a while and learn what there was to learn. In an uncharacteristic spurt of discipline, I recognized that I was being ridiculous.
I bypassed Mike and James and introduced myself to another member of the prayer team. His name was Elijah. ... ...let that ruminate, those of you with some Bible knowledge:
"Hi, I'm Elijah..."
"Hi, I'm John..."
"...the voice of one crying out in the wilderness: prepare ye the way for the Lord!"
"'...but Elijah has already come and they would not listen to him'. He was referring to John the Baptist."
---I didn't think about any of this—that's part of the miracle, naturally. My reaction was to shake his hand and give him a hug. I am a touchy-feely guy and apparently so was Elijah. I told him I was going to be looking for a new job soon and that I wanted to bring the Lord deeper into my heart. He put his hand on my shoulder and I put my hand on his and he started to pray for me. *tears filling John's eyes*
Oh yes. How do I even begin?... because this prayer is the entire reason for the whole entry.
Let's toss-out the elephant in the room: it feels nice to be embraced by another human-being these days. It's not a sexual thing at all—I felt warm just because I was sharing a bond of trust and compassion with a brother in Christ. His exact words, in their entirety, escape me—
I remember getting the sense that I should let my own hand drop to my side. It was like a vibe I was getting and I just went with it. *brief reminder tingle* The prayer started generic, speaking to the issues I had raised. That was as I expected—but I let my expectations start to slip away. *another reminder tingle*. A crescendo began. At first he asked God to reassure me that I did have gifts and that I was called *stronger reminder tingle—I swear, these didn't start until I began to write about THIS*. Then he said something about a 'new revelation—I caught the muted pun on my name (John wrote Revelation, according to tradition) but I just 'knew' that it was beyond the point. *more tingles* The lovely tingle of the Spirit started to come over me, first emanating from the point where Elijah's hand touched John's shoulder. The prayers got really specific and really apt quickly. Out of the blue, he started praying healing on my family—for broken relationships and illness (I'll take divorce and cancer for 1000, Alex). The tingling was spreading and I knew it was the Holy Spirit at work (plus, it feels Divine—in the gooooood way, like a massage), reassuring me. My skeptic side might have discarded his words as freak coincidence but my BODY would not deny that the real, Living, Holy Ghost was *tingle* choosing that moment as sanctified. After almost walking-away, all of my slouching, etc the Spirit was upon me. He also mentioned something about the importance of names, and made allusions to John the Baptist and John the Apostle. I bought it—the flipping Spirit of God was all over me at that point. It got better, too...
...there was a prophesy. Elijah said that I just needed to be faithful in the small things. *tingle* He told me if I was faithful in the small things, God would show me a big-thing (which is scriptural, as well). Elijah said that God would "blow my mind...". All of which was still carrying the possibility of doubt. Are you ready, readers? You know my weaknesses: my own intellect. Both Mike and James had alluded to our sub-conscious traps—my skeptical heart was in evidence. This is the good part:
Instinctively, Elijah moved his hand off of my shoulder and onto my head. That was when all doubt was erased. He started to pray about my doubts and skepticism—prayed for my sub-conscious mind to be healed. The exact words escape me because I cannot get past (and am still tingling on account of) the feeling of the Holy Spirit surging up my spine and literally touching my brain. The experience of joy during worship—that could have been emotional contagion. The tingling in my shoulder? Contact from another. But the sparks in my brain, the uncanny perceptions of my prayer partner, the prophesy about taking care of small things... that was a God thing. I had come believing in a God thing, doubted when the service seemed to long, and then found God again. I could have walked-out. Instead, I allowed that feeling to wash over me... to accept that everything that had happened this evening was just as God intended from Hawk to hand-on-shoulder.
The prayer ended and I finally noticed who I was talking to: Elijah. And I was John... the real John. Just as important as my namesake, too:
Jesus: "Even the least in the Kingdom of God is more honored than John the Baptist". That's me... rotten little skeptic... looking at his watch, can't spare a nickel for GRCC. Honored.
I said to Elijah "That was real! Hey, we're Elijah and John!" Then I gave him a very tight hug and said a very short prayer over him. "God, thank you for speaking through Elijah tonight."
I left the building, still blazing with the Spirit's touch.
Well, what do you think happened then? Do you think I ran out to my car and pulled a trumpet from the trunk, then ran back to the sanctuary to play?
YES! OF COURSE! I WOULDN'T GO TO WORSHIP WITHOUT MY BABIES!!!
Oh holy crap yes! I snuck in, though, and stalked up to a dimly lit corner. I pressed my precious sugar to my brow and began to pray. "ohpleaseGodletthisbeordainedbecauseireallywanttoplay
andnotbeselfishortryingtoglorifymyselfijustfeelthisgiftsostronglyandiwantto..." etc.
Then, at some point, I started adding to the music—still in my half-fetal prayer position. I gradually swelled into the music. *details details* One thing is for sure: I did not worry about impressing people or showing technical prowess. I just expressed and played to God, like DB had always told me to...
Several times, I wondered if that worship band EVER stopped. Finally, there was a smooth transition from band to pre-recorded music. I talked with the director and he said, literally:
"Oh yeah, you gotta let that thing out... look on the church website and e-mail me."
I'm in.
It may have started with some prophetic words from my therapist last Friday. I told Dr. Lennox Forrest that I wanted to get out of my own head—that I needed other people to pray for and care about. Lennox smiled and gave a gentle nod. "Messiah," he said "will no doubt send people into your life to care about if you ask." Someday, I should regale you readers of my mental/spiritual health journey—of Pastor Joyce, Dr. Forrest and a guy named Jerry who I've seen just once (oh, and Charlie Farnum—which is worth a grin for those who know him). It suffices to say, Lennox is not like many therapists... and it almost scared me away a few months ago...
Of course, I knew there were going to be SOME new people in my life: I joined Grand Rapids Christian Connect on Facebook. I met James, Mike, Sarah, Ruth, Leah and many others this past Saturday during an extensive evening. We ate at the twisted chicken and then went and hung-out. I almost did not go—thinking my time might be better spent working on my résumé (which remains unfinished and far from reaching a distant coast). Socializing was not a bad choice, for me. However, that was not what Lennox meant.
He probably meant some strange person who offered to have my children if I made her a taco... or something like that... I might have to gloss over that business for now since I have important testimony to get to... (Frank: One would hope you return to that story! Sheesh!)
It was definitely under-way by Sunday morning, but it did not exactly feel that way at first. We (Plainfield United Methodist, just to refresh your memories) had our outdoor worship at Huff park. A few months ago, I eyed that date with eager anticipation, imagining the sound of trumpet echoing through nearby swamps. Instead, I had a bad-embouchure week and failed to practice for the service. I showed-up and decided to exercise a different gift: helps. I carried equipment, caught the Pastor's notes when the wind blew them off the stand and... led the singing. Later, Jen mentioned that she might like us to sing harmony some time and, for the first time, I realized that my singing was not just a substitute for playing. Yet, like I said to Joyce before the service "I suppose this is a chance for God to show me I'm made of more than music..." Make no mistakes, though: I am built to Worship. That's no boast... it just is...
After our picnic, I called-out the Bingo numbers. Everyone playing bingo had a wonderful time and I was able to put-away my idol: the clock. I let the time pass and enjoyed the weather. Long after we had left the park, I realized that I had forgotten something important: my bag with the Bible and harmonica in it. 1) I seem to have misplaced my other Bible, as well—no Good book 2) the harmonica was my grandfather's. He passed away this April.
Tuesday, I finally hit the end of my rope. Tired from late-night discussions, numbed by the ambiguities of my job, I made my daily pilgrimage to river-side park and started to play. Even after a thorough-cleaning, my trumpeting still lacked the clarity I desired. The fuzziness was all in me. I tried to push through it to the other side~ and in small ways I felt myself succeeding. In the end, I knew what I thirsted for: BIBLE. Not in the sense that I should read my Bible (because by that time I knew it was in the church office, ready for me) but in the sense that I truly desired to connect with God via scripture. I also knew I was being an ass: I felt a pull toward the Christian bookstore to buy a new Bible but I was letting the money and the time it takes to make a trip prevent me from going. I also hadn't had a devo in a few days.
This is the part where it starts to become obvious. Now, I do not mean to sum up my entire belief system in this entry—or even imply that it is a static set of beliefs. However, I should mention that I think God is present in all things and at all times – I call it the metanatural and I believe it moves at faster than the speed of light. To me, the supernatural is when the metanatural moves in ways that defy normal and reveal truth in the natural universe. I don't believe that supernatural and natural differ in their origins at all—only in their purpose: the steady and regular versus the sanctified and ceremonial. Something unexpectedly Holy happened after I brought home my new New Living Translation. First of all... it's a cute little blue Bible! I love it! But seriously... I opened up my devotion and the suggested scripture was Corinthians 13 (Paul's take on love). That got my attention: "By God's will (I believe, putting skepticism away), the first verse I read in my new Bible is about Love." It reminded me of my first week as a Kinawind counselor, which is another long story.
Yet, God's sense of humor does not stop there. I felt compelled to do two devos. The scripture for the second one was Proverbs 16. Ringing any bells? Check out my facebook profile—it's the first quotation on my wall (and will remain so forever, now...). "Wow... double-play..." It was then that I started to feel a profound peace. I had been so quick to pick-up the Bible that I did not even bother to look at its theme. God had: a 'living water' Bible. I was thirsty, remember? God was faithful. Apparently, God idiot-proofed my trip to the bookstore... more on my cool new Bible at another time.
...meanwhile, the plot thickens with taco-girl... what is going on?!?! *clears throat*
However, August 18th 2010 seems to be have been a consecrated day from inception. Again, I want to stress who I have been. I have a gift of wisdom and knowledge, the sharp-edge of which is analysis and even skepticism. To be impressed with these phenomena, I have to be caught with my guard down—I am not proud of this. This morning, I was completely taken from the moment I awakened. You see, almost every morning I have awakened in this apartment since that first drab November day has been a chore. I will raise you another sad fact: the preceding two mornings, I do not even recall shutting off my alarm and returning to bed. I know that I set the alarm but my sub-conscious learned to diffuse it without bringing me fully to consciousness. When I reached full consciousness today...
...I was dancing to "Go Go Go" by the Orange County Supertones, reminiscent of my days as a fifteen year-old. I mean, I was up and going and making my bed for the first time in a month just jamming to the music. I wondered how I could shut that music off every single morning. I knew right then that this day was going to be miraculous. You see, I also have the gift of miracles... it's really hard to use with the gift of Wisdom because I'm skeptical. When I had begun to eat, I remembered that tonight was going to be the first Grand Rapids Christian Connect Worship Night. "Okay, God... you are definitely cross-referencing: I am made to worship. Let's go..."
Work was a little less blah. I was able to be thankful for my perks, rather than feeling guilty about them. Who would not be thankful for the gift of Christian McBride, Branford Marsalis and others over Pandora radio? I did some laminating and was content to be working with my hands more than with my mind. Even better, I got to joke-around with officer Bob:
Bob:"Who was that blonde from yesterday?"
Me: *hesistates and thinks of taco girl, then remembers* "Oh! She's going to be the new intern. We interviewed her yesterday and she did well."
"Alright! Yeah...woo!"
"Woo! You crack me up, Bob..."
Where was I?
...3 mile road was closed for repairs. I had to double-back on highway 96. My idol came-out to haunt me as I lamented the wasted time and motion. Then, God came to say hello—sitting on a sign-post for Leonard street.
"Hi, God... good to see you. I guess this means I am exactly where I am supposed to be."
For those of you who do not know, God likes to visit me in the form of hawks (if I had a 'Spirit Animal', it would be a bird of prey). I know, in my mind, that red-tail hawks frequent highways as a source of carrion. Yet, they time themselves so well that I cannot help but believe that they are driven there by that metanatural Hand. I attached a cheesy lesson to it: "I guess this was a God-ordained detour—if only this entire Grand Rapids trip could be so blessed. If only my NEXT adventure were so blessed. Where am I going?" –but I wrestled free from that reverie.
Sunshine church has a big sanctuary, set into the ground like a theater. You enter at the top and descend toward a stage. The band was already setting-up and I did not dare talk to them. Instead, I found a familiar face and said hello before entering into some light prayer. After ten minutes, I caught myself glancing at my watch, noticing it was past time. About that time, I made eye-contact with a man. I thought something might have passed between but, as I am learning, discernment is not my gift. I saw that his name was Jeremy, so when he introduced himself I wondered if he was the same Jeremy that conducted the worship band and if James had said something about my desire to play. No. He was another Jeremy—and confessed plainly that he had been blessed with the gift of prophesy and had seen this kind of worship coming in a dream. The statement struck me as odd, but my own miraculous morning caused me to reign in my skepticism. For the first time in my in-real-time life, I accepted that someone else might have a perceptive ability that I simply would never have. Academically, I never denied it. Yet in the moment, I had to accept and appreciate that what this guy told me was not a delusion. FAITH.
Unsurprisingly, I accepted the invitation to come forward and worship close to the stage. Without my trumpet, I decided to let my voice do what my trumpet might. Good news and bad news: The style of worship was perfect for improvising and experimenting in exactly the style that I am most gifted in—but my voice is untrained and so I had to get-over being on-key. Yet, I was impressed with how I was able to get over that (probably with Help). I figured "I need to express freely with my voice while I have the chance—" –and it felt right. I asked God over and over again "Let me be part of this worship!" while thinking all the while "I am so selfish... I love to entertain... am I doing this for the wrong reasons?"
But my big challenge was to come while Mike and James were speaking, not while we were singing. I sang my heart-out and was SURE that I wanted to continue coming AND be part of worship. So certain. Then, Mike got up to speak and opened his mouth...
I am not going to take apart the sermon. To summarize, I found it redundant and awkward in places... while simultaneously I saw the truth in it. In other words, I sat and stewed in cognitive dissonance for the duration of his sermon while I listened to him tell us how we could call ourselves righteous. Mike is kind of... well... a bragger; I found some things he said to be prideful—which reminded me of something I heard CS Lewis said about those with terrible pride finding pride so easily in others. Still, God uses all kinds. Obviously, the entire sermon set ushered in a period of spiritual warfare for me—especially the part where he admonished us to listen to the people who God has sent and not be critical. Criticism is practically my gift—there has to be accountability. Yet, simultaneously, he was telling me things I NEEDED to hear—about love, faith, forgiveness. My inner-opposition baffled me, though I should not be so surprised that I felt it. The same thing happened when James got up to speak: my idol started pestering me. I wanted to leave and come back to my safe bubble (talk to taco girl, whatever...). When they asked for money, I was fully in the enemies grip. I waved-off the offering bucket, slouched in my chair, waiting for the worship team to resume. James spoke about purpose and gifts and... things that I knew were relevant. At the same time, my own pride was raging. I was trying to think of reasons why I should not sit there and listen to a couple of guys who had never even been fully through seminary speak. I knew I was getting what I needed. I had to shove my watch in my pocket just to stand it. At the end, the guys apologized and reassured us that they had not meant for it to go so long. My ambivalence reached its height as they called forward their prayer-team. 'Oh, a prayer-team...' I thought 'well, isn't that special—'.
We were actually dismissed at this point. I could have walked-out then. I could have not come at all, really, and spent time writing stuff to impress... people. The World around me. Then, a seed that Charlie helped plant came to bud. I have been reading a book about spiritual gifts and gift-areas. When I took the assessment at the beginning of the book, it indicated that I was strong in knowledge (very strong), somewhat weak in Spirit power (disappointing, because that's the cool part), and pretty dismal in commitment. I blamed my lack of commitment on the paucity of suitable opportunities to be committed to. "I could just keep playing for Plainfield UMC and not be here for so long on Wednesdays..." I said to myself, ignoring the power I had felt in worship.
Then, I made a conscious decision to go against my nature. I decided that I was going to be prayed over, even though I had been prayed-over in church services before—usually with pleasant but somewhat ambiguous results. Yet, I decided that my musical/skeptical ASS was going to stick with these Wednesday services for at least a while and learn what there was to learn. In an uncharacteristic spurt of discipline, I recognized that I was being ridiculous.
I bypassed Mike and James and introduced myself to another member of the prayer team. His name was Elijah. ... ...let that ruminate, those of you with some Bible knowledge:
"Hi, I'm Elijah..."
"Hi, I'm John..."
"...the voice of one crying out in the wilderness: prepare ye the way for the Lord!"
"'...but Elijah has already come and they would not listen to him'. He was referring to John the Baptist."
---I didn't think about any of this—that's part of the miracle, naturally. My reaction was to shake his hand and give him a hug. I am a touchy-feely guy and apparently so was Elijah. I told him I was going to be looking for a new job soon and that I wanted to bring the Lord deeper into my heart. He put his hand on my shoulder and I put my hand on his and he started to pray for me. *tears filling John's eyes*
Oh yes. How do I even begin?... because this prayer is the entire reason for the whole entry.
Let's toss-out the elephant in the room: it feels nice to be embraced by another human-being these days. It's not a sexual thing at all—I felt warm just because I was sharing a bond of trust and compassion with a brother in Christ. His exact words, in their entirety, escape me—
I remember getting the sense that I should let my own hand drop to my side. It was like a vibe I was getting and I just went with it. *brief reminder tingle* The prayer started generic, speaking to the issues I had raised. That was as I expected—but I let my expectations start to slip away. *another reminder tingle*. A crescendo began. At first he asked God to reassure me that I did have gifts and that I was called *stronger reminder tingle—I swear, these didn't start until I began to write about THIS*. Then he said something about a 'new revelation—I caught the muted pun on my name (John wrote Revelation, according to tradition) but I just 'knew' that it was beyond the point. *more tingles* The lovely tingle of the Spirit started to come over me, first emanating from the point where Elijah's hand touched John's shoulder. The prayers got really specific and really apt quickly. Out of the blue, he started praying healing on my family—for broken relationships and illness (I'll take divorce and cancer for 1000, Alex). The tingling was spreading and I knew it was the Holy Spirit at work (plus, it feels Divine—in the gooooood way, like a massage), reassuring me. My skeptic side might have discarded his words as freak coincidence but my BODY would not deny that the real, Living, Holy Ghost was *tingle* choosing that moment as sanctified. After almost walking-away, all of my slouching, etc the Spirit was upon me. He also mentioned something about the importance of names, and made allusions to John the Baptist and John the Apostle. I bought it—the flipping Spirit of God was all over me at that point. It got better, too...
...there was a prophesy. Elijah said that I just needed to be faithful in the small things. *tingle* He told me if I was faithful in the small things, God would show me a big-thing (which is scriptural, as well). Elijah said that God would "blow my mind...". All of which was still carrying the possibility of doubt. Are you ready, readers? You know my weaknesses: my own intellect. Both Mike and James had alluded to our sub-conscious traps—my skeptical heart was in evidence. This is the good part:
Instinctively, Elijah moved his hand off of my shoulder and onto my head. That was when all doubt was erased. He started to pray about my doubts and skepticism—prayed for my sub-conscious mind to be healed. The exact words escape me because I cannot get past (and am still tingling on account of) the feeling of the Holy Spirit surging up my spine and literally touching my brain. The experience of joy during worship—that could have been emotional contagion. The tingling in my shoulder? Contact from another. But the sparks in my brain, the uncanny perceptions of my prayer partner, the prophesy about taking care of small things... that was a God thing. I had come believing in a God thing, doubted when the service seemed to long, and then found God again. I could have walked-out. Instead, I allowed that feeling to wash over me... to accept that everything that had happened this evening was just as God intended from Hawk to hand-on-shoulder.
The prayer ended and I finally noticed who I was talking to: Elijah. And I was John... the real John. Just as important as my namesake, too:
Jesus: "Even the least in the Kingdom of God is more honored than John the Baptist". That's me... rotten little skeptic... looking at his watch, can't spare a nickel for GRCC. Honored.
I said to Elijah "That was real! Hey, we're Elijah and John!" Then I gave him a very tight hug and said a very short prayer over him. "God, thank you for speaking through Elijah tonight."
I left the building, still blazing with the Spirit's touch.
Well, what do you think happened then? Do you think I ran out to my car and pulled a trumpet from the trunk, then ran back to the sanctuary to play?
YES! OF COURSE! I WOULDN'T GO TO WORSHIP WITHOUT MY BABIES!!!
Oh holy crap yes! I snuck in, though, and stalked up to a dimly lit corner. I pressed my precious sugar to my brow and began to pray. "ohpleaseGodletthisbeordainedbecauseireallywanttoplay
andnotbeselfishortryingtoglorifymyselfijustfeelthisgiftsostronglyandiwantto..." etc.
Then, at some point, I started adding to the music—still in my half-fetal prayer position. I gradually swelled into the music. *details details* One thing is for sure: I did not worry about impressing people or showing technical prowess. I just expressed and played to God, like DB had always told me to...
Several times, I wondered if that worship band EVER stopped. Finally, there was a smooth transition from band to pre-recorded music. I talked with the director and he said, literally:
"Oh yeah, you gotta let that thing out... look on the church website and e-mail me."
I'm in.
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